


Heaven Help Us

by parentaladvisorybullshitcontent



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Blood, Gore, Horror, M/M, Mentions of Harm To Animals, Minor Character Death, Psychological Horror, Religious Content, Vomiting, destruction of religious property
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 17:12:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10518183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parentaladvisorybullshitcontent/pseuds/parentaladvisorybullshitcontent
Summary: The next morning when Phil stumbles into the kitchen, there are three small hearts sitting on an oven tray in the fridge.“I got them for him,” Dan says.In which Dan starts acting increasingly strange, and Phil doesn't know what to do.





	

**Author's Note:**

> MORE LIKE HEAVEN HELP ME FOR WRITING THIS AMIRITE
> 
> Ok guys, this is inspired by the latest crafts video. I literally sat down and wrote this all in one go today, so it's very clumsy and rushed and hasn't been edited enough and it probably shouldn't see the light of day but I wrote it and it took a while so here it is, idk. (Save me from myself, I was meant to be updating my twenty one pilots fic)
> 
> Huge thanks to the lovely palephantom, who encouraged me to post this in the first place and read it through for me. You're the best <3
> 
> Also please please if you've clicked and you're not sure about reading this, take another look at those warnings! The last thing I want is for someone to be triggered by this so PLEASE double check, I don't want to ruin your day <3
> 
> Title from Heaven Help Us by My Chemical Romance, bc come on you all know I'm trash by now (I recommend listening to it while you read it might take the edge off)

It starts slowly.

Phil opens the fridge one Sunday morning, brain fuzzy with sleep. He's wholly focused on his quest for coffee so it takes him a while to realise what he's looking at, sitting in the middle of one of the big plates they use for pizza when they have people over.

It's a liver or something, some kind of offal, glinting unpleasantly in the stark fridge light.

Phil blinks at it, baffled. It definitely hadn't been there when he'd had his sneaky 3am bowl of cereal. Dan had been asleep then, and when Phil had climbed back into bed next to him he'd reached out for him, muttering something about how he was cold and he hoped it wasn't his cereal Phil had been eating.

Phil looks at the liver for a moment, so tired he feels like he's swaying on the spot. He ends up grabbing the milk and carrying on with his coffee quest, feeling like he needs caffeine before everything makes sense again.

In the end, he forgets to ask about it. He shuffles back to bed (where Dan's still asleep, face smushed into Phil's pillow) and sits for a while next to him, reading and drinking coffee.

These are his favourite mornings, when they can stay in bed and there's nowhere to be and nowhere to go and nobody they have to call. Just him and a book and the rise and fall of Dan's chest as he sleeps.

“Fuck,” Dan says, when he wakes up about an hour later.

It takes Phil a moment to come back to himself, to tug himself away from the world of fictional characters and their fictional problems.

Dan flails his leg into Phil's, rubbing his eyes and groaning.

“Morning,” Phil says.

Dan just makes a noise that's all vowels, his hair sticking up all over the place. He's squinting so much in his half-awake state that he looks like a mole.

Phil laughs just because he looks so annoyed to be awake. Dan blinks and sits up, flattening his hair down and scowling.

“Shut up,” He says, voice hoarse, but he tilts his head in Phil's direction to help him when he leans over to kiss him on the cheek. “Ugh, God, weird dreams.”

“Hmm?”

“Just...ugh,” Dan says, shaking his head and frowning, like he can disperse the memory of the dreams just like that.

There's something about his messy hair and his frown that tugs on something deep inside Phil's chest. It's like every morning waking up next to Dan is his first morning waking up next to him, still amazed that any of this is happening at all. Not that he could ever say that without sounding like an idiot.

“You're awake now, don't worry,” Phil says instead, and kisses him.

It's only much later, when they're messing around in the kitchen, trying to rustle up a late breakfast from the lacklustre contents of the kitchen, that Phil remembers about the liver.

“Yeah, what _is_ that?” He says, peering at it over Dan's shoulder. Dan's not wearing a shirt, so Phil leans in to kiss his shoulder automatically. “I was gonna ask earlier.”

“Oh,” Dan says, sounding just as baffled as Phil had been for a moment. “Oh. I think, like, it was reduced. Like, it was 50p or something.”

“So it's out of date?” Phil says, nose wrinkling with distaste. “You hate liver. _I_ hate liver.”

“You like pâté.”

“Yeah, when it's, like, pâté,” Phil says, pulling a face against Dan's shoulder. “I'm not too keen on the whole _horror movie in the fridge_ thing.”

“Sorry,” Dan says, sounding weirdly faint for a moment. Then he nudges Phil and adds, “Alright, move, my nipples are gonna freeze off if I stand here any longer. You get the eggs.”

Later, Phil wishes dearly that that could've been the end of it. Dan just made an impulse purchase of some cheap meat, that's it.

Of course, that'd be too easy.

-

“Dan,” Phil says.

It's a few weeks later, and they're editing in the office. Dan's just finished his latest video, and Phil's looking over it for him, the way he always does. Phil knows editing days are the kinds of days Dan likes to avoid until the last possible moment, so he's made it as comforting as possible by having them both under the same blanket on the sofa, Macs propped up by cushions and snacks within reach.

Phil pulls his headphones off, looking at the frozen image of Dan on the screen. He looks over at actual Dan, whose knee is touching his. He's scratching the back of his head, browsing Reddit.

“Mm?”

“What's this bit at the end?” Phil says, not sure what to say.

It's a weird joke about animal sacrifice or something, some kind of schtick that doesn't fit in with the rest of the video at all. Phil doesn't think it'd be so bad if Dan had said it in the usual way he makes his darker jokes but this had just been...intense and serious, and it'd made Phil feel uncomfortable.

“What bit?”

“This, like, animal sacrifice joke,” Phil says. “It's a bit awkward, maybe – maybe you should cut it.”

“What?” Dan actually looks away from Reddit at that, blinking at Phil like he's just woken up. “You think it's really that bad? I thought it was funny.”

“It's just a bit random,” Phil says, feeling unsettled.

Something about Dan's weird voice in the video and the way he's looking at Phil now, all clueless, makes Phil feel like he's playing some kind of joke on him. He's gonna laugh any minute and say that he only put that bit in to freak Phil out, to see if he'd say anything about it.

Except he just sits there, frowning a little, and doesn't say anything.

“Like, the whole,” Phil doesn't know what to say. “The whole, ripping chests open shit, like, _blood dripping down your wrists_ , or whatever, it's a bit -” _Horrifying_. “You might get flagged.”

“I wouldn't get _flagged_ ,” Dan says, rolling his eyes a little. “It's not like I'm showing all of that, I just _mentioned_ it.” He pauses. “If you really think it's that bad, you can cut it.”

“Ok,” Phil says. “Ok. I mean, your outro still works without it, so-”

“It's fine,” Dan says, and smiles at him. Phil still feels strange, uncomfortable and a little weird. “You're the pro here, remember.”

“Shut up,” Phil says, breathing out a laugh without meaning to just because of Dan's smile.

It's just his sense of humour, he reasons, a few minutes later, editing again with his headphones back on. It's his weird deadpan sense of humour, that's all.

-

It happens a few more times. Dan makes increasingly weird, violent jokes – the sort that make people laugh awkwardly, trailing into awkward silences when they're out with friends. As soon as he's said them he instantly flushes and tries to laugh it off, and Phil helps as much as he can, not sure what's going on.

“It's like I don't know what's actually funny anymore,” Dan admits to Phil in a cab home one evening.

Phil's holding his hand and he'd think Dan was being flippant and jokey if it wasn't for how hard he's gripping Phil's fingers, like he might fall if he lets go.

“Generally anything with disembowelment probably isn't all that funny outside of Cards Against Humanity,” Phil tells him, trying to make a joke out of it.

Dan doesn't laugh.

“Hey, it's ok,” He adds, softly.

When Dan looks at him, eyes glinting strangely in the dim light, he looks terrified for some reason. It sends a bolt of fear right through Phil, sudden and hot, because he has no idea what to do.

“It's ok,” He repeats in a whisper.

He keeps saying it until they get home, stroking the back of Dan's hand.

-

After a while, Dan stops sleeping.

“Don't need it,” He says, when Phil asks him about it. It's offhand and casual, and he nearly always follows it up with a soft touch to Phil's hand or a quick kiss, something sweet and distracting to drive the worry out of Phil's mind.

But he doesn't sleep.

When Phil gets up in the night to go to the bathroom he hears Dan talking to himself in the living room, floorboards creaking as he paces back and forth. That's not weird in itself – that's regular Dan behaviour, in fact, usually a sign that he needs a hot chocolate or a hug or to thrash Phil at his favourite MarioKart course.

Except there's something about the way his voice sounds that makes Phil feel strange. He stands there for a moment in the hall, goosebumps blossoming on his arms. The cadence of Dan's voice is strangely lulling, soothing somehow, the way he's emphasizing some words and saying others softly.

Phil tries to open the living room door. It won't budge.

“Dan?” He says. He doesn't realise how much he's started worrying about all of this until he hears how high and panicked he sounds as he rattles the handle. “Dan, what's up?”

Dan's still talking, still pacing, and Phil wonders if maybe he's sleepwalking, maybe that's it – nobody can go without sleep, after all, no matter how much Dan says he does. But the door won't budge, no matter how hard Phil shoves.

“Dan, let me in,” Phil says, and bangs on the door for good measure. He vaguely remembers something about it being a bad idea to wake people up if they're sleepwalking, but Phil's heart's thudding in his chest, something about the continued drone of Dan's voice making his stomach roll. “Dan, I -” The hallway spins a little. Dan's still talking behind the door, still walking back and forth, and Phil suddenly feels like he might pass out.

He leans heavily against the wall and that plate of liver seems to swim before his eyes, like something out of a horror film, just sitting there amongst the regular homely contents of their fridge, dark red and glistening.

Rushing to the bathroom is a blur until his knees hit the ground and he's throwing up, cold sweat beading on his forehead. When he's done he just kneels there, breathing shallowly until the nausea passes.

He doesn't know how long it is until Dan bursts in, helping him to his feet and flushing the toilet.

“Jesus, Phil,” He says, brushing the back of his warm hand against Phil's clammy forehead. He helps him to his feet and accompanies him to the other bathroom, sitting on the side of the bath while Phil cleans his teeth, eyeing his worryingly pale reflection in the mirror.

“What were you doing up there?” Phil asks, when he's swilled mouthwash around his mouth for the second time. Dan's standing next to him now, a comforting arm around his waist. “I tried to get in, something was blocking the door.”

“I couldn't sleep,” Dan says, softly. He looks strange in the mirror, somehow, dark eyes disconcertingly darker, so Phil twists in his hold to look at him properly. “Are you ok? D'you think that stir fry was off?”

Phil shakes his head. Dan's eyes look normal like this, face twisted up with concern.

“You would've been sick too if it was that,” He tells him. He still feels weird, sort of shaky and fragile, not that he wants to tell Dan that.

“I mean, I might still be sick,” Dan says, with a little shrug. He touches the side of Phil's face. There's something in the warmth of his hands that seems to fill up all the cold places inside Phil. It's a new feeling, and not an entirely comfortable one. “C'mon, we should get to bed.”

Dan actually gets into bed with Phil. They curl around each other like cats, the same as always, and Phil could almost forget everything. His eyelids feel like lead, too heavy to keep open. He feels Dan press a kiss to his forehead and he smiles, leaning into him a little.

The last thing he thinks before he falls asleep is that he could almost be sure that it wasn't the stir fry that'd made him throw up – it was Dan's voice, whatever it was he'd been saying in the living room, over and over again.

But that's impossible, he thinks, right before he drifts off. There's no way that Dan's voice could--

-

The next morning when Phil stumbles into the kitchen, there are three small hearts sitting on an oven tray in the fridge, oozing and red.

He nearly doesn't make it to the bathroom that time.

-

“I got them for him,” Dan says.

“Sorry?”

“I mean,” Dan pales visibly. “They were reduced so I got them. Like, a quid or something.”

“That's not what you said,” Phil says. He can feel a shout working its way out of the back of his throat, but he's not angry with Dan, he's _terrified_. “You said you bought them for him, who's he? Dan-”

“I don't wanna talk about this,” Dan says, walking off like they're having an argument.

Phil follows him because he doesn't know what else to do.

“If you don't talk to me how am I supposed to help?” He says, hating the way his voice trembles a little. Dan stops in the hall in front of him, shoulders hunched. “What d'you mean, you bought them for _him_?” He pauses. “It's just – with the jokes and the – the not sleeping, and the – I'm _worried_ , Dan, I just want you to talk to me.”

“I'm fine,” Dan says, without turning to look at him. “I – they were on sale, that's it. I'll – I'll get rid of them later.”

He walks off to his room without looking back.

-

Phil doesn't remember falling asleep, but he must because he gets woken up by Dan curling around him, pulling him close. His automatic reaction is to pull right back, stroking a hand up Dan's back and breathing in the smell of his hair. It's only then that he realises that Dan's shaking a little, and the memories of earlier in the evening crash back into his mind like an avalanche.

“What's up?” He asks. “Dan? What's up?”

“They didn't taste right,” Dan says, so quietly that Phil has to ask him to say it again. “Not the way he said they would, they didn't taste right, they have to – have to be fresh, I think, I dunno, I – but they didn't _taste right_.”

“It was just a dream,” Phil tells him, automatically, holding him close even while he feels nauseous. “Just a dream, Dan, it's ok, it's alright...”

Later when he gets up to get Dan a glass of water, he notices that the oven tray is still in the fridge, exactly where it had been that morning.

The only difference is that the hearts are gone.

-

In the cold light of day, Phil's plan to go to church for help for Dan seems foolish. Not even just foolish, potentially harmful. If Dan's – if he's -

He needs a doctor, Phil thinks, not an exorcism. But there's no way he can convince Dan to make an appointment. That morning he'd been perfectly fine, hunched over in his boxers playing _Outlast_ with the sunshine flooding in from outside. When Phil had told him he was nipping out for an optician's appointment, he'd barely looked up from the game, not even when Phil had kissed him on the forehead.

He might not have actually eaten the hearts, anyway, Phil reasons, eyes trailing over the church's dull grey exterior. They were just gone, he might've binned them or cooked them and ate them, it's not like Phil can know for sure.

Aside from that, all the other stuff he's been doing wouldn't be taken seriously by anyone anyway. Staying up late and talking to himself are key facets of Dan's personality, and Phil doesn't think the 111 non-emergency service extends to a few out of character jokes.

Apart from all that, Phil can hardly explain to a doctor that he's almost certain that Dan can speak in a language that makes him want to throw up.

He can hardly explain that to a vicar either, but he doesn't really plan on speaking to anyone. He's just following horror movie conventions at this point. Maybe next he'll cover his bedroom wall with crucifixes or something.

It's with that image in mind that he lets himself in the church gates and walks down the path to the door.

-

There's something strangely comforting about the smell of the church. It's a sweet, old smell that reminds Phil of visits to old cathedrals and stillness.

He expects his presence to ruin the quiet somehow, but when he takes a few steps forwards his footsteps are noiseless on the stone floor. There's nobody else here and the silence is somehow heavy, like the quiet in libraries and bookshops.

It's beautiful, all carved wood and stone and fancy crosses everywhere. He hadn't known what sort of church would work – in all the movies it's the Catholic churches that are big on exorcisms, but in the end he'd just gone to one nearby. Dan doesn't need an exorcism, after all.

Maybe Phil does, for overreacting so much. Maybe the problem's his, not Dan's after all.

The thought makes him shudder. The church isn't warm, but it isn't exactly cold either. Phil stands there for a moment, staring down the aisle without really seeing it.

He's just turning to leave when he bumps into someone.

“Oh God,” Phil says, maybe a little too loudly. A nun, of course he's bumped into a nun, who else would he manage to bump into in an otherwise empty church? “I mean, I'm so sorry, I didn't see you there-”

“It's alright,” She says. She's old, her face lined, blinking owlishly through especially round glasses. “I shouldn't have snuck up on you like that, sorry. The floor in this place absorbs all sounds, I'm telling you. Last week I was lighting a candle and Father Ainsley came to talk to me and I didn't hear him coming at all. Nearly set the whole place on fire.”

“Right,” Phil says, weakly. He wonders why these things happen to him – he just has one of those faces that people want to talk to. He should be at peace with it by now but it still surprises him. “Um. Well, I'm sorry, but-”

“Oh, no need to leave on my account!” The nun says. “I only come in to do the flowers, that's all.”

“I,” Phil's sweating, which is gross. He feels much worse about being here now that there's someone else here – much less an actual religious someone, a nun, for God's sake. “I'm done, actually, I mean – just a short prayer today, I'm – anyway-”

When she reaches out to touch his hand, her fingers are cool. Phil gulps. His heart's hammering, face hot with embarrassment, but there's something about that touch that makes him feel calmer than he has in days.

“I'll make us a cup of tea,” She says, quietly, letting him go.

Which is how Phil ends up having a cup of tea with an actual certified nun in the back room of a church. Part of him's thinking about how when this whole Dan thing blows over he'll be able to make a pretty good video about this when she looks up from pouring hot water into the teapot and fixes him with this worryingly piercing look.

Phil wonders if this was such a good idea after all. He doesn't even know if this woman's a real nun, she could just be a random person in a nun outfit. She could be handy with a knife for all he knows. He's pretty sure he could fight her off if he had to but he really doesn't want to have to fight off an old lady.

He touches the outline of his phone in his pocket, wishing Dan was here. Dan would know what to do. Even the way he's behaving these days, having Dan here would make Phil feel a whole lot better.

“My grandson used to look like that whenever he'd done something wrong,” The nun says a few minutes later, setting a cup of tea down in front of Phil and sitting opposite with her own. Phil awkwardly looks at her liver spotted hands curled around the chipped cup. He doesn't know how to politely excuse himself, or even to tell her that he doesn't  _like_ tea.

“I,” Phil says, working up to it. He touches his phone again, sticking out of his pocket. He should just text Dan and ask him to call him and pretend there's an emergency. It wouldn't be the first time he's done that. “I'm-”

“Not that you've done anything wrong,” The nun continues, gently. “I didn't mean to sound accusing like that. I just – I've seen that look before, that's all.”

Phil swallows. His cup of tea's milky, the same way his grandma used to make it, and when the steam spirals it brings the smell up to his nose. It makes him think of her, and his mum, and being a kid somehow.

“What look?” He asks.

“Hunted,” The nun says, conversationally, taking a sip of tea. The way she says it makes Phil feel cold, very cold, like ice water just rushed through him.

“Right,” Phil says, his voice small and nervous. And that should be the end of it – he's about to make an excuse, to get up and leave, say he's gonna miss his train if he doesn't go now. But there's something about the steady look she's giving him over the rim of her teacup that pins him in his seat.

He ends up telling her everything.

“...and, and I don't know what to do,” He's saying, a long time later. “I – I know it sounds crazy-”

“It doesn't sound crazy,” She tells him, calmly. Sister Mary, she'd told him her name was (“But Mary does me just fine, Sister's too official”), in between making the pair of them a second cup of tea.

“I – I just – I feel like I should get him to a doctor, or – or ring his parents, or – I dunno, it doesn't feel right in the flat anymore and I – I-” The latter half of his sentence gets stuck in his throat.

“You're scared of him,” Mary says, in the same even tone as before. It's impossible to tell what she's thinking or feeling, her face is so impassive.

Phil nods, hating himself.

“I just dunno what to do.”

Mary takes another drink of tea, apparently thoughtful.

“I have a few ideas,” She says.

-

The first thing Phil notices when he unlocks the flat door is the smell of cooking. The sound of Dan's voice echoes a little down the stairs and for a moment Phil wants to leave, just get out of the flat altogether and run off down the street. He stands there for a moment, frozen in the doorway, then hears a thump and a curse, Dan laughing at himself before he carries on singing.

It's such a normal sound that Phil's heart leaps against his better judgement. He shuts the door behind him and shrugs off his coat, patting his jeans pocket to make sure the little bottle Mary had given him is still there.

“Best to start with this,” She'd said, when she'd handed him the bottle.

“You're really giving me holy water,” Phil had said, barely able to believe it.

Just to help him out, there was a little label printed on the bottle. Just in case it got mixed up with his little bottles of regular water, he'd thought, hysterically.

“Just a drop,” Mary had said. He can almost hear her voice all around him as he walks up the stairs. “In his drink or something he'll eat.”

“And what am I looking for? Like, what will he do?”

“If God's merciful, nothing. Then you take him to the doctor's, or talk to him about his behaviour.”

“And if God isn't merciful?” Phil had asked, fearful.

“Then you come back here, as soon as you can,” Mary had said. “I'm here most days. We can fix this, I promise you.”

“Phil?”

Phil's shaken from his reverie by Dan bustling out into the hall from the kitchen. He's wearing one of their aprons and his smile is soft and pretty, worlds away from the pale, uncommunicative Dan Phil had left alone all those hours ago.

“Oh thank God, you're back,” Dan says, and launches into a story about their neighbour's latest renovation escapades. His voices washes over Phil's ears – he's too preoccupied watching him, the way his mouth moves and the brightness of his eyes, the way he touches Phil's arm as he talks, leading him into the kitchen. “...stuck in the hall talking for, like, an hour, and I was gonna call you because I started to think you'd been run over or something. Was everything alright in the end?”

“Oh, oh, yeah,” Phil says. “I – yeah, just. Eyesight's exactly the same. Just as bad. Glasses are good, everything's good.”

“Ok,” Dan says, frowning a little for a moment. Then he leans in to kiss Phil. “I made bolognese, are you hungry?”

“Starving,” Phil says, and manages to force out a smile. “How about – how about you go and sit down and I'll bring it in?”

“You don't have to-”

“No, I know,” Phil says, and kisses him. “But you cooked it so it's only fair.”

“Alright,” Dan says. “I'll get the drinks.”

When he turns his back, Phil slips the little bottle out of his pocket. It's cold in his hand.

-

Dan's barely started chewing his first mouthful of spaghetti when he says he can't eat it.

“What's wrong with that? Does it taste ok to you?”

Phil grips his fork tightly.

“It tastes great, Dan,” He says, his heart sinking.

“No,” Dan says, pulling a face and taking a gulp of water. “Nope, that's _disgusting_ , Jesus.”

He gets up and takes his plate out of the room without another word. When he's gone, Phil struggles not to put his head in his hands in despair.

-

Phil's dreams that night are horrifying.

Everything's red and it smells like rotting things and unclean places. Dan's there, holding his hand tightly, but there's someone else there too, someone whose presence weighs on Phil's shoulders like a millstone, dragging him down. Phil just wishes he could look at him, look at whatever it is, whoever it is, but every time he tries it's like his head's too heavy to move.

“It's ok,” Dan keeps saying to him in the dream. He won't let go of Phil's hand, no matter how hard he pulls away. “It's ok, it's ok...”

It's only when he wakes up, writhing around in a cold sweat, that he realises Dan's voice is still talking to him, soothing him, similar to the nonsense words that'd made Phil sick.

“Stop,” Phil manages to say, trying to get up. He's too tangled in the bedcovers, limbs heavy with sleep.

“It's ok,” Dan says. He's stroking Phil's brow. “It's ok. He was there, wasn't he?” And he pulls Phil close, cradling his head in his lap and stroking his hair. Phil feels like he's still having a nightmare.

“You have to stop this,” He says, weakly. His voice sounds weird, words slurring like he's drunk.

“It's him,” Dan says, gently. “But we're gonna be fine, Phil. He knows what you did but he's gonna fix it, don't worry. We're gonna be fine.”

His voice is so soft and his hands so gentle that it'd be dangerously easy to believe him.

-

It's cold the next morning when Phil's making his way to the church.

He doesn't know what else to do. He doesn't know if Mary was messing with him, if she can actually help at all – all he knows is that he's terrified and running out of options.

He's also running out of time, if the way he feels is anything to go by. He's finding it harder to concentrate and stay focused on simple tasks. Earlier when he'd been making a coffee he'd just kept pouring the hot water til his cup overflowed and he nearly burnt his feet. It was like he had no memory of picking up the kettle in the first place, but it was in his hand somehow.

He feels feverish and strange, like he's coming down with a cold. Dan had been asleep – or pretending to be asleep – when he'd left, leaving him some note about getting bread and milk.

If Mary can't help, then he'll take them both to hospital. He already decided that in the shower earlier. It's the only place he can think to go now, if this doesn't work out.

(But then there's that warm place in the back of his mind, the same sort of warmth that comes from Dan's hands and his smile, the place he could happily sink into and swim, submerge himself there with Dan and him and never come up for air again...)

Phil stumbles on the pavement, reeling. Sirens tear through the morning air, distant but getting closer. He doesn't even look up – the sound of sirens is commonplace in London, it's not like it's a noise he's unfamiliar with...

A fire engine tears past, but it's slowing, like there's a fire nearby.

It's only then that Phil notices the sharp smell of smoke on the air.

When he rounds the corner, the church is in flames, belching clouds of black smoke. The whole street is cordoned off, a few people grouped around watching the emergency services approaching the blaze, the wail of the fire engine siren still cutting through the air.

Phil stands there as if he's in a dream, watching the bright orange of the flames licking at the greying old building. He thinks of all the beautiful carved wood inside, of the stillness and the quiet.

 _He knows what you did but he's gonna fix it_ , Dan had said. Phil thinks of Sister Mary, and how she'd nearly set the church on fire once already, lighting a memorial candle.

Phil tried to get her help and now – and now -

His eyes catch on the flashing blue lights of an approaching ambulance. He wants to go over to them, tell them it's too late, that he knows it's too late. When he touches his face, it's wet.

He turns and makes his way home.

-

“Phil,” Dan says when Phil opens the front door. He'd been waiting right in the hallway for Phil to come back, and he's dressed in his usual black. “Phil, thank God you're here, he's about to arrive.” He leans in and kisses him. “I told you he'd fix it, didn't I? I told you,” He mumbles in the space between their mouths, and kisses him again.

Phil kisses him back helplessly, thinking of the hearts of animals and warm red on his hands. He smiles into Dan's mouth, feeling blessedly calm, more at peace than he's felt in weeks.

“I can't wait to meet him,” He says.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Into Darkness](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11356821) by [ScarletSapphire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletSapphire/pseuds/ScarletSapphire)




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